


"Dear Jon"

by shakti108



Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25024477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: I swore I'd never write anything set beyond the '90s, yet here I am.  I think I just wanted to write from Richie's POV for once.If you're not familiar, there's a thing called a "Dear John letter." It dates back to WWII, when it referred to a letter from your wife/girlfriend saying she was leaving you. Now it can mean a letter or note ending a relationship, or a job.
Relationships: Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora
Comments: 18
Kudos: 17





	"Dear Jon"

**Author's Note:**

> I swore I'd never write anything set beyond the '90s, yet here I am. I think I just wanted to write from Richie's POV for once.
> 
> If you're not familiar, there's a thing called a "Dear John letter." It dates back to WWII, when it referred to a letter from your wife/girlfriend saying she was leaving you. Now it can mean a letter or note ending a relationship, or a job.

"This ain't workin'."

He dropped the pen onto the table, balled up the paper and shot it halfway across the room -- missing the trash can by a country mile.

" _Oh!_ Airball."

He slumped in his seat, or tried to. He'd learned a few decades ago it was hard to settle into foreign chairs, even in resort suites. They weren't his, so they could never feel right. Anyway, he was fidgety by nature.

Speaking of ...

He reached for the bourbon he'd placed just out of arm's distance -- like that would make a difference -- and poured two fingers. Because if circumstances were uncomfortable, you figured out a way to get comfortable.

He'd learned _that_ thirty years ago, too. 

He put the bottle back in its designated spot then wrapped his hand around the glass. He didn't even want it ... well, not one-hundred percent. Mostly, he needed a distraction from the pad of paper, from his thoughts, from the weight of the realization that it was finally -- _finally_ \-- time to grow some balls and make a choice.

He took a drink, closed his eyes as the warmth hit his throat, then set the glass down.

His gaze went straight to the pad of paper again. Distractions only last so long.

He knew it was stupid. They didn't write _letters_ to each other, for fuck's sake. No one wrote letters anymore. Even email was too big a hassle these days. If you can't say it with a text, it ain't worth saying.

He didn't even know how he'd ended up here, with a resort pen and resort paper with a fucking Hawaiian-flower border. He couldn't remember why he'd thought this was a good idea.

Maybe because he used to do it. He wrote a lot of letters back in the day, actually. Love letters. Or _begging_ letters, to be more honest.

He snorted softly.

Back then, any time he fucked up with a girl he truly cared about, he'd try to sweet-talk her with a letter. It felt romantic ... enduring. She could frame it, or tie it with a ribbon -- or send it back to him, unopened. And then he could cry over it, see his tears blur his own words. That was fucking poetic. You couldn't get that by drunk-dialing and begging for another chance.

And yeah, OK -- It was easier than facing what he'd done, seeing the hurt, knowing he was the reason. He couldn't stand it. It killed him to see the pain ... Even so, he just never could seem to help himself when they were on the road.

That's how it was back in the day, anyway. When he was young and had the energy to just keep trucking along. City to city. Drink after drink. Pussy after pussy. Smile always in place. He was the fun one ...

The fun one. The funny one. The goofy sidekick. 

He still was, he supposed -- but only when called upon. And he went along with it only out of habit. That was something else he couldn't help -- trying to make everybody laugh. Since he was a kid, that's what he automatically did. And everyone loved him for it. He was upbeat, never dragged anybody down with a shitty mood. He could always light up a room.

Almost always.

And everyone loved him for it. Well ... Jon loved it and hated it.

He pulled the pad closer and nabbed the pen.

Or maybe _hate_ wasn't the right word. Jon loved it, except for the times he didn't. Maybe _resented_ was a better word ... Yeah. That was a good word.

"Resentment." He wrote it as he said it, with a big showy 'R,' just like he always did with his signature.

He studied it for a moment before a hollow laugh escaped.

"Well, that's no way to start a letter."

He ripped the page out and tossed it aside to start anew.

"Dear Jon." It sounded weird, but he tried writing the words anyway, to see if they looked as strange.

"Yep." So fucking formal. "Guess my letter-writing skills are rusty."

He glanced at the bourbon then back at the page. _Dear Jon_

"Dear Jon." He said it softly this time, and it sounded even stranger, so he scratched it out and tried again.

_Hey Jonny_

That looked less weird, but the tone wasn't right. And anyway, he hadn't been saying _Jonny_ all that much lately. He didn't bother crossing it out, though. This could just be his draft letter, he figured -- so he didn't keep wasting paper and missing the rim.

"Hey, Jonny ... Hey, man."

He used his thumb to click the pen a few times. Jon fucking hated when he did that. But sometimes he needed it -- just for something to do with his hands. Especially when Jon was being a pain in the ass, agonizing over the same old minutia -- like they hadn't established, many times over, that _cryin'_ and _lyin'_ definitely rhyme, and often happen in stormy relationships.

Like they didn't know that the _pain_ and the _rain_ were inevitable and easy to sing.

The amber bottle caught his eye again.

"Hey, man."

That sounded a little better, but when he wrote the words on the page they looked stupid. He sighed, and it turned into a laugh. He couldn't even decide on the ... what was it called? Salutation? 

"Fuck it. He knows his own name."

It was time to move on. He slid the chair in so he could lean over the pad and get serious.

_I'm writing to tell you_

"The fuck?" How did _that_ come out of him? "'I'm writing to inform you we received your application for a home equity loan.'"

He didn't bother X-ing it out -- He just moved on.

_Jon -- This isn't something I wanted to do in a letter,_

His hand stilled, like it was calling bullshit, so he paused to consider the words. He supposed he meant it ... The truth was, he didn't know exactly what he was doing. Exactly what he was asking for.

No. Not _asking._ He was telling Jon he needed ... time. Right? That was the main thing. He needed more time and he was taking it.

"This isn't something I wanted to do in a letter ..." 

It sounded OK -- like something he might say -- so he put pen to paper again.

_but the thing is, I need to take some time off. I know you're trying to work it so we have a lot of breaks, but it's not enough for me._

His pen was really going now.

_We came back too fast -- faster than you said we would. And I can't do it. I need more time at home with Ava. I need more time to settle. I need_

He stalled out again, not sure where he was heading. He decided to leave the line unfinished and keep going.

_Things just aren't working for me._

Yeah. That much was true. 

_I need a longer break. Maybe I can catch up with you on the next leg._

He blinked at the words, somehow surprised to see them. Surprised, even after all this time, it was so automatic -- to try to leave a door open before he'd even managed to get through it.

He sat back and scrubbed a hand over his face. 

"Can you blame me?"

There was no reply, so he guessed the answer was no. And who could blame him? This was all he'd known practically his entire fucking adult life. Of course he wanted to leave a lifeline, a path back to it. Who wouldn't?

Except ... Those _things_ that weren't working for him would still be there on the next leg. And the next. And then the next album. And the next tour. And the next numbing appearance on a daytime talk show, playing backup strummer, because he didn't really get to talk anymore.

And OK, maybe he deserved it. He wasn't as reliable as he used to be. He could say things that were ... what's the phrase? _Off-brand._ And maybe he didn't have much of anything to say anyway.

He just wasn't as good with the sales pitch anymore.

"In my defense," he said to no one, "it's hard to sell something you don't believe in."

Something you had no part in. Something you knew, in your gut, would never be yours again, even if the "R. Sambora" appeared here and there.

He used to always call Jon his _partner._ That word never seemed to appeal to Jon, though. So he'd gotten used to being called the _right hand._ It was fine. It meant he was important. It meant Jon relied on him.

For a while, it was a source of pride. Then for a while, it was good enough. And then there was a point where he'd heard it so many times, recited so precisely it sounded like a recording, it lost any meaning.

And now it wasn't even true anymore. He wasn't even the guy's fucking _appendage._

He barked a laugh, reflexively reaching for the bourbon before catching himself. He had to finish this thing while he still could. So he picked up the pen instead.

_I know you don't trust me anymore. I know you_

He swallowed hard. He'd thought about it a million times before -- how he'd lost Jon's trust -- so he didn't expect it to hit like that. But writing the words out, seeing them ... It was different from thinking them.

He'd forgotten, somehow, that writing a letter wasn't exactly the easy way out.

He took a breath and dove back in.

_I know you think you don't need me like you used to. Maybe I gave you some good reasons, but_

He paused to click the pen a few times.

_I think everything I've done for the past 30 years should count for something. I think it should matter. What I need should matter._

He dropped the pen like it was on fire.

"I sound like the fucking long-suffering wife."

Jon would laugh at that shit. And who could blame him? He scratched it out and read the previous line aloud.

"Maybe I gave you some good reasons, but ..."

He clicked the pen, chewed on his lip. There was so much he could say, but he needed to stay focused, keep it about the business.

_I don't need to tell you, I still do a lot for the band. I'm the guy with ten jobs, remember? Give or take -- maybe not so many now. But at my age, it's kind of a drag. I need more time_

He sat back. Jon would laugh at that, too. Because no one worked like Jon Bon Jovi. He was the hardest working man in show business, right? He'd stolen that slogan all the way back in the fucking '80s. Back then it sounded blind and ridiculous coming from a kid with ripped jeans and a lion's mane for hair.

But it was close to the truth even then. And now it sure as fuck was. 

So Jon would laugh. And maybe that was OK, because he wouldn't be there to see it. 

Anyway, he'd always liked giving Jon those reminders of all his responsibilities -- though lately he'd mostly done it in interviews Jon would never see. 

Maybe he just wanted it known, to someone, that yeah, some other dude could come in to do his guitar parts. And some cat who knew how to rhyme could help Jon tweak his lyrics. But there was no one able and willing to play all the roles he had ... especially the _jobs_ that involved making Jon happy.

He grinned at the paper.

"Y'ain't gonna find someone game to do it _all,_ Jonny."

He felt his smile fading as he stared at a blank space between the lines. Not that he thought Jon would want to give all his duties away ... He was sure certain things were just between them.

"One-hundred percent."

Of course, they hadn't made each other _happy_ for a while now. It had just fallen away, like things do.

He looked at the page, torn out and flipped over now because he'd run out of room. Even though he'd said so little.

"I need more time." 

He tapped the table with his pen then started again.

_You know what I been doing? Sitting on the beach with my baby girl. Hiking. Zip-lining, of all fucking things. An old guy like me. And it was fun, man. When's the last time you just had fun, Jonny?_

He paused, clicked the pen.

"When's the last time we had fun?"

He flipped the page to the first side, wanting to see if there was some logical thread. A line of reasoning. He was struck by the visual -- how the lines were scattered, and some just stopped dead. It was fine, he knew, since this was just a rough draft.

Still, it looked like the diary of a madman.

He clicked the pen while he read through the lines that weren't scratched into oblivion. _Time._ That word kept coming up.

Is that what he was really asking for? Just more time?

He shook his head. "No."

Really, if he looked at the spaces between the lines, he wanted to go back in time. To when he wrote letters, and things were shitty sometimes but it was easy to laugh. When it was easy for Jon to laugh with him.

Sure, he'd picked up some bad habits back then, and he was surely still paying for them. And there was no way in hell he'd give up what he had now, especially Ava.

But at least back then he'd known who he was -- a guy who played guitar in a rock band. A singer and a songwriter. No matter how crazy the "lifestyle" in those days, he knew what made him special.

So in certain ways, yeah ... He supposed he wanted to go back in time.

But not even the great and wondrous Jon Bon Jovi could give him that. Or want to give him that. Because Jon was all about moving on -- in his own measured way.

He looked at the page then flipped it over again. For no reason at all. It was beginning to dawn on him why this was so hard, why he couldn't even write the goddamn salutation ... There was just nothing to say, because there was nothing to be done.

Anything he'd write now would just be a blame game. That might feel good, but it wasn't needed. He'd already been dropping plenty of unsubtle hints, in public. What had he said in that interview a few months back? Bon Jovi is a "caste system"?

He winced. Yeah. That was the kind of shit that got Jon worked into a lather -- if he was paying attention.

He grabbed the bottle, poured another two fingers, but left the glass in place. He'd always liked that amber color.

It also occurred to him that maybe he was a coward -- trying to do it in a letter. Or, apparently, _failing_ to do it in a letter. He had to admit that could be true ... But it was also possible for multiple truths to exist together. He'd learned that a few decades ago, too. 

Like, it was possible to love someone and need to leave them.

Of course, if you love someone, don't they at least deserve an explanation? At least a letter that says you didn't want to do it in a letter?

He clicked the pen a few times more, eyeing the disjointed words, wondering whether he had the will to arrange them into some kind of sense.

And at some point it finally struck him, just like that -- a truth so obvious it made him laugh. Quick and empty. He'd sat down so tunnel-visioned on what he was doing, he hadn't even considered ...

He grabbed the page, balled it up and shot it across the room blind. He didn't look to see where it landed. Because after all these years, he knew some things ... like gravity always wins in the end.

And you don't write a good-bye to someone who's already left you.

END


End file.
